


achy older men

by mayachain



Series: Honor Guard [7]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: mcsmooch, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-15
Updated: 2009-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayachain/pseuds/mayachain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many years after "Honor Guard", Rodney focuses on one of John's scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	achy older men

  


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There are a lot of scars decorating the skin of John's body. Scars caused by bullets, knives, shrapnel, broken glass, his first skateboard accident. He used to count each and every one of them as he got them; now, he only remembers the important ones. The day he fell off a horse. The day his chopper went down, that day in Afghanistan. The day his heart stopped, and stopped again when he awoke alive after all, surrounded by his team. The day a Wraith fed on him. The day Torren was born.

Those scars, along with the unimportant ones, have started to cause a varying amount of discomfort as he got older. Some days, he can almost ignore it; more and more often, he has to take tiny breaks and breathe through short, sharp lashes of pain.

Surprisingly enough, it's not the scars left from his gravest injuries that turn out to be most irritating. There is one tiny scar on his left thigh that he is made expressly aware of every time the sky so much as looks like rain. It's almost microscopic, compared to most others, and John is fairly certain he never knew he even had it when he was young. It is possibly the oldest scar he has, and there is no-one left alive to remember where it came from.

There is one scar just that half inch above his heart that has never let him forget its existence since he got it. A low, constant thrum of sensation has kept him company since the day that would have marked Rodney's wedding. John doesn't mind, though, because every night Rodney will slide a hand down the old, worn shirt John likes to wear in bed. The back of his wrist will keep the fabric out of the way as he presses his lips to the slight ridge on the skin, let them linger there until John is almost asleep. Then, he will slowly work his way upwards, a slow lori trail of open-mouthed kisses across John's collarbone, his throat, his chin, until John will turn his head and kiss him goodnight, soft, tasting mint and a smile and a remainder of evening tea on him.

Only when he no longer can keep his eyes open will Rodney lay his palm flat over John's chest, keeping the pain at bay, and John will take the sensation into his dreams, feeling wondrous and thankful and infinitely content.

* * *

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